


White-Black

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angel/Demon Relationship, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 14:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18033458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Prompto runs into the demon prince after a meeting.





	1. Prompto

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Rating is for next installment. These aren’t really chapters so much as two vignettes, because I couldn’t decide whose POV to write this snippet from, so might do both.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He knows that he should stay away, or at least, that his father thinks he should, but Prompto’s never been fully inline with all the Emperor’s thoughts. He’s not exactly a _rebel_ —not willing to stir up any conflict; he doesn’t start fights the way Ravus and Loqi do, and he doesn’t want a war. He _wants_ to get along with the Lucian delegation. He wants to trust them, even though they have red eyes and sharp teeth and pointed ears. Everyone tells him they’re head to toe demonic. But Prompto doesn’t hold that against them. A person doesn’t have to have fluffy, cream-coloured wings for him to like them. 

When they spill out into the hall after their meeting, the two parties stay in very different camps. The emperor himself strolls forward, always at the head of the pack, massive mechanical guards flanking every movement. The Lucian king goes another way, his devilish glaives in step with him. The Imperial councilors linger, suspiciously eyeing the Lucian retainers. Prompto goes in a different direction than all of them—his chambers lie no closer to the Lucian guest quarters than his father’s suite. Amidst all the military tension in the air, nobody notices him. He’s surprised to hear footsteps follow after him but chalks it up to a lone guard with a mission. It isn’t until he’s turned several corners, long out of earshot of the council chamber, that he glances back to see who it is.

The Lucian prince flashes him a winning smirk, all teeth and fangs. Prompto’s heart skips a beat, his wings twitching. It’s not the sort of itch he gets from incoming _danger_ , where his wings will fidget and unfurl, ready to fly away. There’s just something about his Lucian counterpart that gives his body all sorts of strange reactions. 

Prompto’s steps slow and falter, and the other prince strolls right to him, stopping just within reach. The two of them are about the same height, and Prince Noctis should look smaller—he doesn’t have big wings to extend his space. But he has a poignant presence that makes up for it. He’s not half as beefy as his Shield, but he’s clearly toned, well-shaped right through his dark, royal garb. He looks _hot as hell_ , especially when he’s grinning. 

He didn’t smile throughout the entire meeting. If anything, he looked bored. But he grins at Prompto now, a cocky little thing, and asks in a deep, lilting voice, “So... what do angels do for fun?”

Prompto tilts his head. The delegation’s staying for another few days, but he and Noctis aren’t likely to attend much more of it—their fathers will probably hole up alone, talking and yelling over a treaty that’ll never come to pass. Prompto had just assumed both parties would otherwise keep to themselves, though he’d planned to sneak out for a clandestine photoshoot or two. The Lucians might be demonic, but they’ll be damn interesting models. He could get a whole album out of Noctis. But a _friend_ would be even better than a model—Prompto doesn’t have many of those. 

A demon probably isn’t a good place to start, but Noctis prods, “Let’s start easy—you got any good games?”

Prompto blinks, then blushes, because he realizes he should’ve answered the first question. “Uh... I mean, I do. That’s not what most of us _do_ though, I just...” Hates fighting. Most angels, in his experience, become MTs or command them. But he’d way rather command virtual troops online in a fantasy setting, one where the soldiers don’t have wings _or_ fangs, and there isn’t really anything at stake. 

Noctis nods approvingly and presses, “Any fun ones, or just boring goody-good shit?”

Bristling, Prompto splutters, “I’ve got all the big ones—King’s Knight and Justice Monsters and that kinda thing...”

Noctis laughs, “Awesome; so you’re not all puritan after all.”

Prompto should’ve figured that’d be the propaganda—probably stuff his own father pushes. The _ultimate good_ label’s never made much sense to him, since all his people ever seem to do is _fight and conquer_ , even if his father makes it sound like they’re warriors of light: out spreading truth and justice. He’s never agreed with that insanity, but he still can’t help getting riled up by Noctis’ taunts, and he finds himself retorting, “Hey, why do I have to be less good? You don’t even know me. Maybe _you’re_ the one that needs some rehabilitating!” 

As soon as he’s said it, he wants to take it back—if Noctis was striking up a friendship, Prompto wants it, and he’s already nervous and doesn’t know how to go about that, but Noctis doesn’t look offended at all. He snorts and takes a step closer, closing in on Prompto to slickly answer, “I _am_ good. You’re the ones who hide sick shit behind your pretty faces.”

With Noctis right up next to him, smelling eerily delicious and radiating a tantalizing warmth, Prompto blurts out, “Hey, you have a pretty hot face too.”

Another step, and Noctis abruptly pushes Prompto back against the wall. Prompto stumbles, turned around by it, and his wings flex out to their full length, but Noctis doesn’t look twice at them. His eyes are glued on Prompto’s. Prompto can sense his power boiling to the surface, but it’s not threatening, just... _hot_.

Prompto knows he’s a shit angel. He doesn’t want to fight evil; he wants it to ravish him on the spot. When he’d idly daydreamed about getting to know Noctis more during the meeting, this isn’t what he was thinking. But he’ll happily take it. 

“I wanna play games with you,” Noctis says, like it’s perfectly normal.

Prompto numbly answers, “I wanna do that too.”

“You’re not gonna care that I’m a prince or give me any political shit.”

Prompto shakes his head. He doesn’t care about that stuff either, and he thinks he’d still have this reaction if Noctis was some stray servant with an attitude. Noctis slots one leg between Prompto’s thighs and moves forward, brushing his mouth over Prompto’s. His hard fangs graze Prompto’s lips, not angled to cut, but putting just enough pressure to let Prompto know he _could_ cut in if he wanted to. Prompto shivers with delight and leans into the touch, tilting to reciprocate the kiss. 

The next kiss is bruising—Noctis shoves him hard against the wall and thrusts an eager tongue into his mouth, gobbling him up with relish. Prompto’s arms fly around Noctis’ shoulders, readily accepting the rough treatment. 

A loud noise interrupts them—someone clearing their throat. Prompto would spring away if he had room, but instead he has to wait for Noctis to begrudgingly part them. They both look over to find a tall demon standing not far away, crisply dressed and wearing glasses that cut down the glare of his red eyes. He wears a light frown and scolds, “Your Highness, you were asked to behave as a _good_ guest...”

Noctis rolls his eyes. The man adds, “You’re expected to return with the rest of the delegation; His Majesty wishes to speak to you.”

“Duty calls again,” Noctis sighs to Prompto, as though expecting Prompto to understand. Prompto’s too busy blushing over being caught. At least their discoverer doesn’t look ready to run off and tell the Emperor, and Noctis doesn’t seem particularly surprised by his appearance. Noctis does move away to follow him, but not before giving Prompto a loaded wink and running a pointed tongue along his moist lips. Prompto’s pulse is racing. 

For once in his life, he’s actually looking forward to the next political get-together. But that’s with the understanding that he’s going to be a very, _very_ bad angel.


	2. Noctis

Gladiolus stays outside, as does the sneering guard from Niflheim that looks too cruel for fluffy wings. He glares but holds his tongue when Noctis shuts the door in his face—they don’t need an audience for this. Noctis heard Gladiolus’ judgment and weathered his father’s lectures before the meeting, even took Ignis scolding him for his reckless attitude. He politely listened to it all, but he still does what he wants. This opportunity’s worth breaking rules for. 

Prompto seems to agree. He wanders right into Noctis’ quarters, letting himself be swept from room to room—past the sitting area, the entertainment section, right to the large segment in the very back. Prompto spares a moment to eye the tall, curtained windows on two of the four walls, the elaborate wooden shelves stuffed more with games and movies than books, and the desk laden with confidential scrolls. Then his gaze falls on the giant bed, red-black and four-poster, imposing and eye-catching. Noctis lets him stare and comes up behind him, flattening against his back, feeling the soft down of his wings. Prompto’s breath catches, his head tilting back. Noctis’ arms reach around the lithe figure before him, and he deftly unfastens the buttons of Prompto’s formal garb one by one. 

Pliant and obliging, Prompto lets himself be stripped. He stays slack as Noctis peels away the jacket, paying extra care as it drags over his wings, having gilded holes cut out in the back. The shirt underneath has similar slits, embroidered in silver and gold. Noctis pulls this away as well, then splays his hand in the center of Prompto’s bare back. A little shove, and Prompto steps forward, obediently reaching the bed. 

Noctis pushes him again and watches him fall. As Prompto turns to look back at Noctis, Noctis grabs his boots, popping them right off. Next are his tight-fitting pants, which Noctis rips away. They join the other pieces of clothing on the floor, where they’ll lie until Prompto’s summoned away or Ignis comes in to clean. Noctis is sincerely hoping none of those items leave the floor for the entirety of Niflheim’s business. 

Lying on his side with only his vanilla briefs on, Prompto says, “I thought you were going to show me what kind of exclusive games Lucis has.”

“I will,” Noctis promises, while his eyes and real concentration roam Prompto’s handsome form. “But afterwards, when we’re too exhausted for _other_ things.”

Prompto grins wide, like he’s very much dying for both, a feeling Noctis fully understands. He had tremendous fun just _hanging out_ with Prompto last time, when it was Noctis’ delegation visiting Niflheim, and he’d snuck out every night to linger in Prompto’s quarters. They started hot and kissed and touched but mostly just messed around, playing on their phones or consoles while half draped over each other. Then the last night came, and Noctis got so much _more_ than just the peer he’s always wanted. And he wants more of it again. 

He climbs up onto the bed to join his fellow prince, guiding Prompto over, so that Prompto rolls onto his back. His ivory wings spread out across the mattress, looking all the paler against the dark duvet. Noctis has been waiting months for this. It doesn’t matter if Prompto’s completely Imperial; he looks best with his wings fully drawn, his skin all exposed, every gorgeous bit of him out for Noctis to see. Sometimes Prompto sends him pictures, when they can figure out untraceable ways to do it, but those luscious glimpses are no replacement for the real thing. His interest must show on his face, because Prompto asks, “What is it?”

“You’re so pretty,” Noctis purrs. Prompto flushes a lovely pink, highlighting his freckles. Noctis can feel his fangs extending, his own demonic parts responding to the innocence before him. “I can’t wait to debauch you.”

With a pleased noise, Prompto arches off the bed, and that has Noctis crawling forward, perching right between Prompto’s spreading legs. Prompto draws them up, knees bending, and Noctis can’t wait much longer—he spent their entire political session daydreaming about fucking Prompto right on the council table. He moves to leave, needing to fetch lubrication, but Prompto grabs his arm and reads his mind, admitting, “I’m already ready.”

“Are you?” The thought has Noctis’ grin growing, his tongue coming out to trace his teeth. He’s sure he must look monstrous, but for an _angel_ , Prompto seems quite into that—Noctis can see his blue eyes dilating. Noctis lets the mental image linger, speculating, “So while the rest of us were preparing for our two nations to negotiate an important treaty, you were by yourself—I hope—holed up in the guest quarters my father gave you, spreading your thighs open and drawing your hands between them...” Prompto squirms and bites his bottom lip but doesn’t protest. Noctis lowers his voice and continues, “Imagine that—a sweet angel, stuffed full of his own fingers, working his tiny pink asshole open in the hopes of filling it up with demon cock...”

Prompto breathes, “ _Noct_...” and arches up. Noctis loves how he says the nickname. Noctis just keeps smirking, and Prompto whines, reaching up to pluck at Noctis’ jacket. Feeling benevolent, Noctis strips it back. He tosses it away to join Prompto’s clothes, then takes off the obsidian-patterned shirt underneath, leaving just his pants. Prompto watches with rapt attention as Noctis pulls them open, skipping right past his boxers to pull out his cock. One stroke, and it’s rock-hard—the sight of Prompto like this is more than enough to get him going. 

The last thing to go is Prompto’s briefs—Noctis strips them off himself, then flings them away, secretly hoping Prompto never finds them again. Prompto’s hands slide down his body, but not to hide himself—he holds his thighs wide open. Noctis couldn’t ask for a more perfect lover.

If left unattended, Noctis’ nails tend to grow in points—Lucians might not have the Imperial gift of flight, but they make up for it with claws and fangs. He filed his down the moment he heard a Niflheim delegation might be coming. He’s glad of it now. When he circles one blunted fingernail around Prompto’s puckered hole, Prompto shows no sign of worry. His furrowed entrance even twitches and flexes open, then clamps closed again, clearly eager for Noctis’ touch. Noctis pets it approvingly, then carefully pushes inside. Prompto hisses, but the single digit goes in easily. Prompto’s channel is slick and silky, clearly pre-stretched. The first time he did this, Prompto was so tight that Noctis had to wait several minutes before every movement. Obviously, Prompto’s been practicing, because Noctis can squirm his way in to the knuckle, withdraw and even add another. He’s prying Prompto apart with three fingers in no time. Prompto’s velvet wells welcome him with sick squelching sounds and bubbling moisture. Handsome, royal, and well desired, Noctis has done this dozens of times. But it feels so much _dirtier_ with his little angel, who coos and cries for him with open arms.

When he realizes that Prompto’s poor cock is already leaking, arching proudly over his stomach, Noctis knows he can’t wait much longer. He pulls out his fingers and wipes the excess liquid along his shaft. Prompto stares at it from under thick lashes. He’s breathing so hard now that Noctis can see every movement. Noctis understand the anticipation. He wants to connect them too. He lines himself up and drapes himself over Prompto, asking, “Ready?”

Prompto mumbles, “Fuck me, Noct.” So Noctis obeys. 

The first thrust is brutal—Noctis can’t help himself. He drives in with a wild ferocity unfit for bedding an angel, but Prompto screams like he loves it and cocoons around Noctis’ body. His knees dart to dig into Noctis’ sides, his arms clutching at Noctis’ back, even his wings curving up around them. It closes them right in, makes the air warm and stuffy, but that only adds to the atmosphere. Noctis knows by now that there’s so much more to Prompto than a pretty face and fragile wings. He says he doesn’t fight, but he _can_ —he’s tough and clever and fun as hell. All the things that Noctis wanted. Noctis can’t resist burrowing deep into his body. But Noctis’ waits until Prompto’s cry breaks off and pitters out before he dares to move. 

In long, deep strokes, he pounds into Prompto. Prompto’s channel spasms frantically around him, so much tighter than any demon’s he’s ever had, but dripping wet and brilliantly smooth. Prompto doesn’t give any protests, just clutches desperately to Noctis and whimpers Noctis’ name. So Noctis keeps going. He fucks Prompto with a burning fire, first littering Prompto’s face with hungry kisses, then tilting to lick and nip his jaw. When Noctis sinks his pointed teeth into Prompto’s throat, Prompto howls. There’s enough pain in the noise that Noctis immediately relaxes his jaw and pulls away. His hips slow too, though he doesn’t have the will to stop them completely. He pants above Prompto, slightly nervous, “Was that too rough...?”

Prompto shakes his head. His pupils have eaten up his irises, his cheeks bright red. He already looks fucked stupid when he turns to Noctis and mutters, “Hey, we... should pretend I’m your prisoner... like, Lucis won and you captured the Niflheim remains, and... now you’re gonna do whatever you want with me.” Prompto even smiles dizzily, which takes the suggestion from weird to wanton. The war’s probably nothing to joke about in bed, but neither of them want it anyway. Noctis actually finds himself laughing. 

“I love how _bad_ you are,” he murmurs, leaning down to capture Prompto’s mouth. He kisses Prompto hard as his hips resume their pace, tongue and cock fucking Prompto in tandem. When they part, he bends to bite Prompto’s shoulder, savouring the cry it earns him and purring, “But I don’t want you to be my prisoner; I like you just like this...”

Prompto’s moan sounds absolutely blissful. He brokenly babbles, “ _Noct_... Noct, _fuck me_...” Noctis does. 

As soon as Noctis wraps his fingers around Prompto’s cock, pulsing hard and trapped between them, Prompto’s whole body is writhing. A few pumps is all it takes to have Prompto spraying both their chests, screaming and clenching down on Noctis’ dick. Noctis is so close himself. It’s _feeling_ Prompto’s orgasm that really gets to him. Prompto’s cum hits him, no different than his own, even though they’re completely opposite species. That undoes him. He roars into Prompto’s shoulder as he comes, hips still going, pounding his release deep inside Prompto’s channel. For that one glorious moment, Noctis is nothing but _pleasure_.

He still feels wonderful when he’s coming down. Slowly, his seed runs dry, and his thrusts putter out, his body stilling. He lets himself fall onto Prompto, knowing that he’s heavy and that Prompto can take it. Prompto hums pleasantly like he enjoys being crushed under naked demons. He holds onto Noctis like he’s never going to let go, and Noctis hopes he doesn’t. 

Most of the time, Noctis conks right out after sex. He’s languid by nature, and though he can get riled up, he really likes his sleep. But he doesn’t want to fall asleep on Prompto and miss any of the little time they have. When he’s recovered enough, he pushes himself off Prompto’s chest. The two of them are both panting, covered in sweat and flushed all over, sticky with both their seed. Noctis relishes the moment, just looking down at Prompto: spent and satisfied in Noctis’ bed, utterly debauched. He wishes he had the energy to just keep going—to fuck Prompto over and over again until the Emperor physically dragged Prompto away.

Somehow, he blurts out, “Maybe we should scrap the negotiations and just try a political marriage.” Which is way too much too fast, of course, but it’d be better than no treaty at all, which is probably what their fathers will get them.

Prompto grins and says, “Okay,” which has Noctis leaning back down to kiss him.


End file.
